Hear, O Israel
by ohwhatagloomyshow
Summary: An examination of the question, "What if Max went to give testimony in Jerusalem, shortly after the Yad Vashem law was passed in 1953?" Liesel's POV, every other chapter is of their reunion in 1945. Updates Mondays & Thursdays.
1. Morning, 19 November 1955

_iThe Commandant is screaming in his ear._

_He stares across the yard unseeing, unaware of the gates just fifty yards ahead. Unaware of the men stiff as boards at his side: one a Communist, the other a priest._

_His legs want to collapse underneath him but he continues to stand, continues to stand even as his calves scream at the effort. His soles throb in their unforgiving wooden shoes._

_The gray striped clothes are so worn against his skin; barely offer any protection against the chilly fall air. He needs to shiver but does not let himself and nearly burns with the ache of keeping still._

_Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot to his right and he hopes that this is the end, hopes they will put a bullet in his brain instead of sending him to the back building, where he can sometimes hear the screaming in the darkness of the barrack—/i_

She wakes up swiftly, as she always does when his voice tears her to consciousness. All is clear at once—it is the nightmare. From the angle of the sun through their bedroom window she figures it must be nearing dawn, as the soft light creeps through the blinds just enough to give color to the plain white room.

She doesn't waste time as she props herself up in her place, not bothering to worry about the pillows crooked behind her back. The sheets are smooth against her bare legs as she pulls her knees together, and braces. Next to her Max reels, twists violently from side to side while his mouth is open in an unsettling moan that cuts through the quiet room. His dark hair, dangerously long, nearly hides his tightly-shut eyes. Gently she eases her hands beneath his thin trembling shoulders. It takes a moment before she can nudge him where she wants him.

"Max, wake up." She doesn't have to think as she says the familiar words in German, the only language that will calm him. She's mastered the art of making her tone soft but very firm, slicing through his agony. His head is on her lap and she takes his feathery hair in her hands in an effort to keep it still. She caresses his temples, his cheekbones, feels the new stubble growing around his mouth as it scratches against her fingertips. The moan works its way into a scream. "Max," she calls once more, bending down to place a kiss on his forehead. His skin is so clammy. "Max, please wake up." As impersonal as she tries to keep her voice, the third time always becomes a plea.

His eyes slam open with a suddenness that startles her; they are wild and unseeing. His breathing is heavy as the scream abruptly becomes silence; his mouth remains gaping open. It takes a few moments for him to finally focus on her face; when he does, he smiles with complete relief until he cries.

He's quick to wrap his arms around her, pulling himself to his knees in order to grip around her middle, place his forehead between her neck and her shoulder. His cheek rests against her collarbone, and his tears soak through the thin cotton of her nightgown. She puts a thin hand against his hair and brushes through the tangled mess; her other arm wraps itself solidly around the small of his back.

"I don't think we should go," she sighs in slow, purposeful English when his terrified sobs quiet, when he releases her to sit against the headboard. The bed creaks as his weight shifts; her side is cold as his body leaves and she wishes he hadn't pulled away. Her hands collect uselessly on her lap.

"We bought the tickets." His English is even slower than hers; he replies in a shuddering breath as long fingers rub his eyes. The color in his cheeks is high. His bare shoulders are hunched as he brushes the final tears from his eyes.

"We can cancel. We can go again."

He sniffs deeply once, twice. He removes his hands from his face, looks at her. A sad grin softens his swampy eyes.

"I have to go now, Liesel."

She shakes her head, her long hair tickling her shoulders. "No, you don't." She takes his cheek in her hand, cupping around his firm jaw. He leans into her touch. "I just want you to feel good. To feel safe."

His lips are soft on the palm of her hand as he twists ever so slightly to kiss the skin.

The trigger is almost violent in its complete unexpectedness.

_ The crowd of prisoners is tight around them but it doesn't matter because it's been so long since she last saw him. He looks terribly old. He's crying and his skin sags against her touch._

_ "Yes, Liesel, it's me."_

He freezes as he watches her tremble. "I'm so sorry." His voice is tender as he pulls away from her palm. The sudden switch to German does not help her connect back to the present.

Her eyes are tightly shut; she shakes her head jerkily to clear the image, the sound, the feeling. It takes longer than she wants it to.

"I'm fine," she sighs in determined English, although her hands shake beyond her control. There's nothing to do but wait.

"We're both having terrible days, aren't we?" She wants to be frustrated at his persistence of their native tongue, but his fingers are curving around her elbow in an effort to touch a part of her that doesn't tremble. She smiles in spite of herself.

"Maybe it's just nerves."

"It could be." The English makes her smile, and he leans forward to place a steady kiss on her cheek. "I'll make breakfast this morning."

"Are you excited?" He's at the mouth of the doorway when she murmurs it, a hand on the frame as he prepares to turn down the hall. He stops at the sound of her voice, pauses a moment in thought.

"_Ja_." It's a whisper that she nearly misses; she can only tell he responded through the sudden tightening of his fingers around the frame. His shoulders are taut for just a moment, but he rolls them and sighs and vanishes down the hall.

She leans back, her head hitting softly against the wooden headboard. She wishes there was something, anything, she could do for this nervous anxiety. The trembling begins to fade from her fingertips, and in a few minutes she climbs from the bed and joins him for tea.


	2. Noon, 20 October 1945

She can barely let him go, even when their knees start to ache against the hard linoleum of the tailor's floor. His hands are still in her hair, disheveling her braid; her fingers are taut around his back, digging through his shirt. Their tears are sticky on their faces, cooling as they dry on their clothes.

"I missed you." It's the only thing she can choke out, and it brings on a new wave of tears for them both. Her voice is so hoarse after wailing into his neck.

"I missed you, too."

His voice is just as weak; trembles.

He's the one who begins to stand, and she clumsily crawls off of his legs, plants her feet steadily as they help each other up. Her face is in his hands.

"Look how you've grown!" Tears crowd and spill over his eyelids. Tenderly, he brushes the long bangs from her forehead. She grins up at him, loving the soft, steady warmth of his palms—can feel his pulse, memorizes the beat. It continues to confirm her deepest desire, and it makes her own heart pound faster—he's alive, he's alive, he's alive.


	3. Early Afternoon, 19 November 1955

It doesn't take much time to load the car; they fill it silently, each taking care of their own bags. It is decided that Liesel will drive when he wordlessly passes her the keys.

The trip to the harbor is short and uneventful, a road they both have traveled half a hundred times before. But she can't help it as the German bursts from her lips; she braces herself for his response, even as she starts the conversation.

"We don't have to go today, Max."

He meets her tone: cautious, guarded, struggling to stay nonchalant. "This is about the nightmare, isn't it?"

She sighs, and her fingers tighten faintly around the steering wheel. "A bit." She's quick to add, "I'm just worried about you, is all."

He shifts in his seat; brushes back the hair from his eyes. "I can do this, Liesel." An amendment: "I _want_ to do this."

"Yes, but I don't know if _now_ is a good time."

"_When_ would be a good time, then?" The sharpness of his tone is just as she had expected, but still it startles her. "I can't control the memories, Liesel—you know I can't. If I could, don't you think I'd make them stop?"

"I'm not asking you to control them, I only—"

"Then what do you want?" His fingers tighten into fists. "It's been nine years and they haven't lessened. Would you like us to wait another nine? When everything starts to fade?" He says it automatically, without thinking; as it leaves his lips they both know that these memories will never fade. When he speaks again, his tone is softer, if still bitter. "Better to do this now, while I can—while we have money to go. I owe it to everyone to do this."

_You need to do this for yourself, yes,_ she thinks tenderly, _but you owe yourself rest, too._ She keeps it bundled, and continues to drive.


	4. Afternoon, 20 October 1945

There are hasty introductions between the men; she can't stand to look away from him for more than a few seconds. Even so, he holds her hand, and she wonders if he needs the reminder of her presence just as badly as she needs it for him. Their hands are tight; their fingers curl around each other. She hopes he'll never let go.

Herr Steiner tells her to stay home for the rest of the week; when she protests he ushers them out through the front door.

"You need this," he says with a sad grin before gently encouraging her through the doorway.

And so she takes Max to the mayor's house. He doesn't say much as they tread the repaved road, letting her silently lead the way. She can feel him glance over her face again and again. Occasionally she struggles to speak, but she finds all conversations lead to the bombing, so she swallows the words, feels them burn down her throat. It would be unkind to speak of the deaths without his invitation to do so. She knows the words will hurt him, and wants to avoid that as much as possible. Besides, telling of watching Hans play down Himmel Street is too intimate, even though it kills her to stay silent. The need to tell makes her heart blossom near to bursting, but somehow she keeps everything tight in her lungs.

Ilsa Hermann keeps her face calm, but Liesel can read the joy in her eyes as she comes down to investigate the noises. For a moment, it's clear that she had been hoping for his safety just as much as Liesel had. She introduces them hurriedly, and it's also clear that Ilsa represses a desire to take him in her arms. They only shake hands; Max is delighted to meet the woman who took in his word shaker, although he doesn't say anything. The happiness and honor is bright and obvious in every expression.

Her voice is high and hesitant when he steps back from her foster mother. "Can he—stay?"

The question hangs in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time as Max struggles to invent a reason why he can't, uncomfortable with his desire to continue spending time with the girl but loath to let himself end the utter joy of being in her company.

"Of course he can stay." Ilsa's soft murmur carefully interrupts Max's fumbling. He blushes and says his thanks.

Liesel tugs his hand, and leads him into the famous library.


	5. Late Afternoon, 19 November 1955

They park, unpack, walk to the boat without another sentence between them; the frowns disappear from their faces only when they greet the crew of the ship, hand their boarding passes to prove their payment. The employee seems to be smiling too hard when he shows them their room.

It's a tiny thing, cramped when they set their suitcases down: a little more than a foot of space separates the bed from the walls. The walls themselves are an inoffensive pale white with a soft print Monet across from the bed, and aside from the small round window opposite the door, it is the only interruption from the bland coloring. A door on her left is open to a cramped water closet. Liesel sighs at the depressing sight of it all before taking a seat on the corner of the firm mattress. Max goes to stand resolutely at the window.

For want of something to do, she kicks off her heels, rolls her ankles.

"Well!" she exclaims as the silence drags on. She turns to face his immovable back. "Say something!" She lifts her left knee onto the bed, and her skirt pulls tightly against her legs. Her hands gather on her lap, and she examines her nails. "Please," she breathes.

"Thank you."

Her head snaps back up; her neck cracks at the suddenness of her movement. He still faces the wall, but his head is titled to the right, and she can barely make out his profile.

"You're welcome," she replies simply. Awkwardly he turns to her, smiles sheepishly. He takes a step and places a kiss on her forehead.

"Thank you," he whispers once more, lips tickling her skin. She shivers.

There is only slight hesitation when she replies "You're welcome" in Hebrew.

She can feel him smile; he lifts his left hand to her face, cups her jaw, places another kiss hard on her temple. Kisses her once more on her right cheekbone, her nose, her lips.

The argument, the frustration, is over.


	6. Evening, 20 October 1945

A fire crackles in the living room as the bright moon creeps higher into the night sky. She sits on the rug before the flames, leaning back against the legs of the couch. Max's pose parallels hers as he sits beside her, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands in his lap. As he speaks, he plucks at his nails, cracks his knuckles, stares at the fire. Does not look directly at her.

"It took so long for them to release us—they had to make sure we were eating correctly, that we were healthy enough to leave. That took…it took a lot of time." When he speaks of the Displaced Persons camp, his eyes have a far-away look. He trembles slightly. She brushes her fingers against his elbow.

"I live with Walter now, up closer to Stuttgart. We have a flat together, near our old neighborhood—living together helps pay for rent, for now. When our finances get stronger, he's going to help me look for my family." He smiles, a sincere, hardy thing that eases a bit of the trembling. "He helped them after I made my way to Hans, you know." He looks at her with soft eyes. "He found a family willing to take in some of Isaac's children; he knows they at least took in Lis—his oldest. He found a place for Becca, too, but he's not sure if she fled. So he's—except for Lis, we're not sure what happened to the rest of my family." He sighs, and it shudders through the warm air. The shaking returns in his arms, and he looks away.

The crackling of the logs is the only sound for a while; under her touch the trembling fades slightly.

"Can you—can you tell me?" His voice is high-pitched, and he shies away a bit from her touch. "About the…." He can't bring himself to say it.

She does. The words fall from her tongue like a waterfall: Hans's call to the army after his leaving, the broken leg, until she comes to talking of writing in the early morning, dozing where he used to live. Waking up among the rubble.

Watching Hans play his accordion one last time.

He starts to cry the moment she begins, but the sobs are overwhelming when she describes Rudy. He curls up, legs against chest, arms crossed over knees, head on his forearms. She holds his shoulder and continues to speak evenly, although she pinches at his bony arm until her fingers are white. When she finishes, ending with her adoption by the Hermanns, he's mopping off his face with his hands. It takes him a very long time to catch his breath.

"What was it like?" Her voice is barely even a whisper in the now silent room. She looks at him in the firelight, and he turns to meet her eye. The residual suffering in his expression is almost unbearable.

"I don't know if I can, Liesel." He struggles to offer her a smile but it is weak and trembles wildly.

He studies her for a few more minutes before turning back into his own private thoughts. She does not interrupt.


	7. Early Evening, 19 November 1955

She has the urge to write again—for just a moment, as he leans down and carefully places kiss after kiss upon her neck, while his fingers tenderly undo the buttons of her light cotton blouse. It's not the first time she's had this urge—to feel a pencil creating blisters between her thumb and finger, staining the side of her fist with lead or ink in the early evening light.

For a moment, when his lips cup her collarbone, she can feel the weight of the words upon her shoulders, waiting for the release through her hands, and it is unbearable. At the old age of twenty-four she still has too much in her system, so much she needs to get out. She thinks of Max after his release, frail and sharp even after months of rehabilitation at the displaced persons' camp. She thinks of 1948 and the jubilation of the Jewish community in Munich—the jubilation of so many survivors, and their incredible passion for a recognized homeland. She thinks of his own fierce pride over that victory, a victory he had never fought for yet _ached_ for. She thinks of their wedding night when he handed over memories of Dachau word by word. And she thinks of his final decision to lend his voice to the voiceless, his final decision with stern lips and grim eyes to give testimony for the family that never could. She thinks of his night terrors and triggers and feels useless beneath the weight of her uselessness.

She does not have the words, will never have _enough_ words to write for him, to tell their story, but she makes what use of her hands she can, regardless, encouraging his body to turn under her. He smiles under her lips at her sudden insistence, giving easily under her control. When she rests with her legs parted over his hips, her torso just barely above his, her fingers are wild in his hair, and with her eyes open they trace every line of his face. He opens his own eyes when their lips part so she can trace the just-swelling mouth with her fingers. He watches her patiently, curiously, and his hands move from the small of her back to softly caress around her tight forearms.

Early in the Ulpan lessons, the instructor had told of what rested within the First of Man's name: one finds the Hebrew word for man, the beginnings of the word for earth, the root of the word for blood. In the name of Adam, in the beginning of mankind, one finds the creation of human race.

_No_, she thinks, her husband's body warm beneath her, with her shirt half-undone and her palms hungry. _After all I've seen,_ I_ am the creation. _I_ create with these hands, full of earth and blood. And Max creates. And we can destroy. And I am starving for it._

So with her body rising with purpose she pulls the top from her chest, pressing herself too strongly against him. He begins to laugh at her intent for destruction but she catches him in her whirlwind soon enough, and he joins her; pure in purpose they tear the sheets from the bed, make a mess of each other's hair. It's a euphoric rush to rip the clothing from the other's body, a frenzy that neither has known before. There is a glorious moment, her body pressed against his so tightly, where she becomes unsure of where she ends and where he begins.

When they finish, falling back onto the rough texture of the bare mattress, they shiver as the cool evening air whispers across their overwarm bodies. An exhausted, satisfied laughter reaches them then, as his arm curls around her lower back, with his head just above her navel, spread hair touching pieces of her breasts. His other arm haphazardly cups around her thighs and knees. His breath tickles her hips. She strokes through his feather hair, eyes drowsy and restlessness gone from her soul. Bits of her thighs and arms ache, comfortably, and she marvels at the gentle red marks his kisses have left on her skin.

He tells her he loves her, softly. Once more, she is overwhelmed, because she wonders if she has ever loved him more than she does in that moment.


	8. 12:54AM, 21 October 1945

Her jolt to consciousness is abrupt, terrifying in its completeness. Her shoulders are sore against the hard couch, the bottom of her thighs itchy against the carpet that digs into the flesh of her bare legs. The fire is reduced to small embers, living red among the black ashes; their light is weak, and the moonlight streaming in from the windows behind is a detached pure white.

The screaming is distant at first; the panicked sounds seem to stem from the far walls, impersonal but horrific. It takes a moment for her periphery to catch the violent thrashing at her side, the twitching of Max's limbs as he turns from side to side on the floor to her left.

"Max?" Her whisper shakes away the last bit of disorientation in her; she is tense, frightened by his high-pitched wails and clumsy movements. "Max!" she repeats, louder; he does not hear.

"Max, stop!" She reaches out to touch him, unbidden thoughts of Hans rushing to the forefront of her mind as her hands brush against his hair, his face. With the thoughts of her foster father comes the knowledge of how to proceed: gentle touch and careful holdings. She positions herself beside the terrified man, urges his head onto her lap. The thrashing begins to stop at her touch. "Max, wake up, please wake up." Tears she didn't know were in her drip from her cheeks and land haphazardly upon his forehead, his lips, as she leans down over him. A bit roughly, she presses her lips against his hairline in the desperate hope that her kiss will wake him.

It does.

The movements stop immediately as his eyes explode open; he scrambles from her lap to sit beside her, and stare at her face—he seems to take in her every pore.

"Are you okay?" Her voice trembles as her eyes trace over his still-panicked expression.

His mouth stutters open but nothing quite comes out before he throws himself at her; clumsily she grasps around his back, holds him solidly to her shoulder. His sobs shake them both. She does not ask, and he does not tell, only cries hot tears that soak quickly through her shirt.

It takes too long for him to calm down.


	9. Late Evening, 29 November 1955

They are loath to move, but as fatigue tugs at his eyelids and worms its way into her limbs, he finally lets her go, and they happily let sleep take them as they settle side by side, the hastily-remade bed beneath them.

As tired as she is, however, her grief finds her—as it always does—and persists even through her exhaustion.

She wakes with the ever-present loneliness, her body tense and shaking from the stress of the nightmare. The echoes of bombs still ring in her ears even as she pants, clutches the cheap blankets in sweaty palms. She stares at the ceiling for a very long time.

She dreams of sensations anymore—the overwhelming feeling of grief, pain, of being very lost. She dreams of the accordion and German swears, the sensation of dusty lips and lemon hair.

It takes so long for her to shake them away.

In the soft light from the tiny window she can just make out his body tense beside her, his shoulders tight, his expression uneasy. She smiles gently, of pure relief, when she recognizes tonight as a good night for him. She knows the way his long body looks when he sleeps—always anxious, prepared to wake. She wonders if he'll only relax on his deathbed.

She shifts as carefully as she can onto her side, and studies his profile until she drifts back to sleep. Her body lightly spoons against his rigid form; the feel of his hips against her pelvis is a reassuring pressure that guides her, finally, into a sensationless sleep.

Behind closed eyes she sees a golden Star of David, and a desert full of olive trees.


	10. 1AM, 21 October 1945

"That's never happened to me before," he murmurs softly as he finally pulls away from her hold. She takes his hand, and they help each other off the floor.

"I'm sorry." Fresh tears hit her eyes violently, and she squeezes his hand for want of another way to give him comfort. They stand together, crack and stretch their tired limbs. He rubs his tear-stained face repeatedly, and she pulls at her shirt where his weeping has soaked through; the rush of air gives her a slight chill, but she refuses to shiver.

"I've never—I've never dreamt about it before." He can't seem to stop himself as the words burst from him, his fingers pressing into his eyes as if to shove away the visions. "There was a roll call. I thought I was going to die, Liesel." He shudders to his very bone. "I've never felt it so—completely before. I've never—oh, God." A second shudder, and she can hear the tears thick in his throat. The rubbing of his eyes continues, intensifies.

"You're safe now," is all she can think of to say. And then she touches him, very lightly, on the elbow. When he takes away his hands to finally look at her again, his eyes are red and irritated, the skin of his cheeks still wet. He offers a weak smile.

"It's too late for you to go home." It's so obvious, and so pathetic in her young voice after his cries of pain. "Would you like to spend the night? The Hermanns won't mind."

He stammers, glances at a watch that isn't there. When he looks up at the mantel, she notices how disheveled his suit is, the white shirt wrinkling and the creases gone from his pant legs. His hair, too, is chaos, and when he looks back at her he looks ten years younger, a Max Vandenburg she never knew. He smiles embarrassedly, ashamed of taking advantage of his privileges as a guest. "If you're sure it's all right."

She nods and relief floods her. She takes his hand, and they walk through the quiet, warm home until she brings him to the second floor, the first room on the right. When the door opens she turns the light on, and it reveals a lightly furnished room, with a rather large bed and matching pine end tables and vanity. The walls are a gentle cream, the sheets an inoffensive olive green. She releases his hand and he shrugs from his jacket, undoes the first few buttons of his shirt. The shoes are the last to come off before he sets himself down, sighing softly at the comfort of the mattress, his body above the covers. She murmurs a "goodnight" she's certain he doesn't hear, and as she turns out the light and begins to shut the door, he speaks reluctantly.

"Would you mind—staying, for a little bit? I want you to—to be here in case I—I have the nightmare again." She can nearly see his blush, even in the darkness and even from the distance.

"Of course, Max."

She shuts the door behind her and in darkness pulls the sweater over her head. Her shoes are placed beside it before she joins him above the sheets. As he drifts, the most relaxed he's ever been, his hands blindly search for hers. When his fingers slip between hers, she gives them a comforting squeeze. They hold hands as they sleep, side by side.


	11. Morning, 30 November 1955

"I'm scared, Liesel."

He stares at his reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror, the comb in his right hand, poised to brush through his sleep-tousled locks. The ship has just pulled from Perth, and beneath their feet they can feel the rocking as the boat cuts through the Indian Ocean waters. She watches him, leaning against the far wall, her ankles crossed. She had smiled as she watched him, but as his sentence finishes, she straightens and frowns.

"What are you afraid of?"

As the comb continues to hang in the air, she smiles and pushes herself from the wall; in a few paces she is beside him, and takes the plastic from his grip, and gently tugs the teeth through his hair. He grins at her insistence.

"I can't..." He shrugs as he slowly moves from the bathroom, squeezing past his wife to sit upon the bed in order to be closer to her height. "I can't remember why I wanted to do this."

"You wanted to do this," she murmurs, leaning down to place a small kiss on his crown, "to honor your mother." The plastic scratches against his scalp pleasantly. "To honor Isaac, Sarah, Rachel." She finishes, sets the comb down beside him on the linen, place both hands gently on either side of his face. His eyes regard her carefully as he hangs on every comfort she gives. "To reassure yourself that their deaths were not meaningless." He struggles against the tears that cloud his vision; he's forced to blink and as he does, she kisses his forehead, a whisper of lips against his skin. She brushes away the tears before they can stain his cheeks. "You wanted to do this because you have so much love in your heart, and you need to know that the world is good, so that you can continue loving." Her own voice hitches at the end, but she forces herself to swallow and clear away her own grief. Max shudders once, sniffs severely, and smiles so brightly up at her. His hands come up between her arms, push a few locks of hair behind her ears, thumbs caressing her cheekbones.

"And you need to do this because it _will_ honor them. Because your testimony will tell the world that they—that _you_, that everyone—did not suffer in vain. You will pass on your own story so that this can never happen again."

The Ulpan in Sydney had only just begun when they had made the decision to head to Jerusalem; they were lucky to have learned the few practical verbs and grammar rules they were able to pick up in the few months under such disorganization. But learn they had, and Liesel's Hebrew, still too weak to gain any respect from native speakers, is considerably better than Max's stuttering insecurities. But here he swallows, and opens his mouth with confidence.

"I love Liesel Meminger." They had not learned the way to phrase a proper "I love you;" this was as close as they could come to saying the words in a third language.

Weeks ago, it had been the first thing he had ever said to her in the reborn language of the Jewish state.

She smiles softly, too happy for words, and meets his lips with hers.

"I love Max Vandenburg."


	12. Morning, 21 October 1945

Waking up beside Max Vandenburg the next morning is the most natural thing in the world.

She can tell he had not moved during the night: his body is painfully ridged, and his hands, crossed at the wrists, are still open and waiting to hold hers. She can't hear his breathing but there is color in his face and it reassures her that he is, in fact, alive. Rolled onto her side, she watches him for a very, very long time.

The room is filled with the lush sunlight of dawn, and for a moment it pleases her to know that she is the first one up this morning; it is only the pleasant thought of surprising everyone with breakfast that makes her tear herself from his side.

In her own room, as bare and impersonal as the guest room, she dresses quickly and without care; a brush is pulled roughly through her tangled hair in an effort to bring order to the mess, which it only barely does. She nearly rushes to the kitchen when she determines she is finished; is almost too eager for this morning for her own good.

But Max is alive. But Max is alive and is safe in her home.

She puts the kettle on for tea and begins the mayor's coffee (two years with them and she still can't bring herself to call them anything other than the mayor and Frau Hermann, even in the privacy of her own mind). As quietly as she can, she glances through the cabinet and the icebox, desperate for anything to offer him and frustrated when she remembers that the stocks haven't been as full as they had been when she first arrived. She settles on a loaf of bread and different jams, slicing a few for the Hermanns and putting the rest—over half of a loaf—on a plate for him. She loads the first together on one tray, and carries it down the hall.

It is the mayor that opens the door for her, still intimidating as he stands before her in his dark robe, the sleep rubbed from eyes that go from questioning to surprised and thankful as they fall upon her full tray. And while she cannot honor him with the title of Papa, Herr Hermann has been kind, and continues to be kind as he takes the breakfast with repeated murmurs of thanks. She smiles, ducks her head, and returns to the kitchen for Max.

She's not sure which kind of marmalade he prefers, so she grabs the different kinds they have and loads them onto a second tray, along with a mug of tea and another of weak coffee, knowing she'll take whatever he doesn't. It's a bit of a hassle to carry down the hall, but luckily the door to the room is open just enough for her to kick it with her toe; the doorknob hits the opposite wall softly as the room is revealed to her.

Max continues to sleep above the covers, in the same tight position as earlier. She can't understand how he can sleep that way, as if he is prepared to wake at any moment. It makes her feel guilty when her entrance does rouse him.

He wakes very suddenly, almost jolting from sleep. It startles her and she freezes, stepping to the bed with her hands so full of food and drink. There is slight panic when he does not recognize the room as he glances around, but when his eyes fall upon her they soften, and he smiles.

"I brought breakfast."

He helps her with the plates, almost too touched to give thanks. _Almost_.

He thanks her with black and red stained lips as he smothers bread in every preserve they have; burns his mouth on ersatz coffee and weak tea. He devours it all like a starving man, and from the still-sharp edges of his shoulders and hips, she wonders with worry how close to the truth that observation is.

He catches her watching him as he bites into an apple; he looks down at himself sheepishly before putting down the fruit to surprise her by taking her wrist in a soft, sticky grip. His expression is all seriousness. "I promise you, Liesel, I'm fine." He offers a gentle, genuine smile. "You didn't need to bring so much food for me—but thank you, it was all very delicious."

She smiles, embarrassed at having been caught out for her unnecessary concern. "Thank you."


	13. 30 November – 2 December 1955

The next two days are spent along the promenade, meeting passengers and giving away pieces of their story as they struggle to communicate with broken English. They're not the only foreigners setting off to Israel: many describe, with thick accents but inherently understandable eagerness, the help they've received from Jewish organizations around the world to make the journey, to settle in the Promised Land. For many, there is the recognition of another survivor in Max, but the language barrier keeps them from asking too many questions. Every so often a name is passed to him in struggling English, but each time he apologizes, not recognizing the surname—he passes over his own names, the names of childhood friends, but is also met with a sad unknowing. Liesel holds his hand tighter through these discussions.

For Liesel, there is a bright side in the similarities between German and Yiddish, the laughing struggle to communicate with similar languages from woman to woman. For the most part, she enjoys the confused conversations with the others in the second- and third-class rooms—the women test her ability to communicate, and they do not judge her for her worn and outdated suits. In the company of a few of the upper-class women, she can feel their cool gazes, but here she feels among friends, and brightens at the sensation.

Among the lower-class women, conversation is easy and inevitably turns to food. They can't help but swap recipes, especially when Liesel confesses that her only talent lies within that dreadful Hubermann pea soup—the other wives tease her for her thinness and offer trade secrets for thick soup and delicious kosher roasts. Liesel offers the only comfort she can in return—recommended books—but they eat up her suggestions, surprising her when they pull out their own books taken along for company on the long ride to Israel. She hopes to meet each of these women again, for lunches and dinners. Everyone knows the ship is so crowded, that they may never see each other again—especially after the docking at Haifa—but for now, there's the delightful desire for future conversations and jokes between languages, things that make Liesel eager for the next two weeks.


	14. November 1945

He is generous with his thanks to the Hermanns, for their sudden hospitality to his unexpected presence; and when he speaks with them as she waits at the door, she is sure he thanks them for their care over her, too. He hugs her goodbye as though he'll never let go, but he pulls away as he promises to come back as soon as he can.

And he does, just two weeks later.

His second arrival at Herr Steiner's shop is nearly as much a surprise as the first; it startles her to see him again, his presence still something of a shock after nearly three years of separation. They sit together in the back, and he helps her with her homework while he tells her that he's booked a room in a nearby hostel, prepared to stay for the next two weeks at the most. There are no words for her joy—or for his, as he beams down at her, a grin as brilliant as the sun across his mouth.

They make a routine of it, meeting at the tailor's shop after school to spend time with Herr Steiner. The men, their conversation stunted and awkward at first, soon grow comfortable around each other, talking lightly of books and history, and any politics unrelated to the past decade. Liesel can sometimes see the shadow of guilt beneath Herr Steiner's eyes when he looks at Max, but after a few days it lessens, especially after he implores them both to call him Alex from that point on. They do so, with shy smiles.

Ilsa, too, is changed by Max's reappearance in her home, and Liesel knows it must have something to do with herself, with her own changes in mood. For the past week she hasn't stopped smiling, and she thinks her new foster mother must be relieved at this change in behavior. Ilsa greets him with a kind grin every afternoon, and eagerly invites him to dinner. He refuses the first two, leaving early for a cheap meal in town, but on the third night he accepts, and the Hermann table is quiet and uncomfortable at first, but occasionally Liesel will put down her knife just to touch his knee or his arm, and she knows she would face a thousand awkward meals just to sit by his side.

As chilly October transitions into wet November, the beginnings of a winter cold break him down. It kills her to see him ill once more, although this chill is not like anything he faced at the Hubermann's. This is lighter, characterized only by sore throat and runny nose, the occasional high color in his cheeks indicative of a fever, but still it makes her damn them—damn Hitler and Himmler and the SS and the world—for taking away his strength, for taking away his peace. Damn them all to the darkest pits of Hell.

By the end of the week his health begins to return, and as they walk along the Amper River, he tells her he must leave.

"I need to find a job in Stuttgart again." He can't quite meet her gaze as he says it. She leads him to a rare dry spot for them to sit and watch the river. After a moment, she leans against his shoulder, and his arm easily wraps around her side. The anticipation of separation is crushing, and she can hardly breathe beneath it.

"You could stay here." She lets herself whisper it, soft. She can feel his smile.

"I wish I could. But I need to go back home. And I need…." He lets the sentence die on his lips, but the ending haunts him, makes him release her to lean forward, put his head in his hands. "I need to find my family, Liesel." He has never sounded so exhausted.

Uselessly, she put her palm on his shoulder, the only comfort she can offer. "Can I help?" It's all she can think to say.

He shakes his head silently, rubs his worn face with tired fingers. "No, you can't. It's something Walter—Walter and I need to do. He's been looking into it for the past few months. We're going to visit some of the camps, learn what we can—I need to go home, find a job, add more money to our pile." He takes the hand that rests on his shoulder, and gives her a wan smile. "But I wish I didn't have to leave."

It is the first time she has ever truly wanted to kiss him, and it is an unbearable urge: the thought that, with their lips connected, she could remove some of his pain. The longing to take away his hurt. And the desire to prove what she hopes he already knows—that she loves him, more than any living person.

It passes after a moment, but even so, she kisses the back of his hand. "I'll miss you."

He collects her in his long, skinny arms. "I'll miss you, too, word shaker."

They say goodbye on the porch of 8 Grande Strasse, the air cool and growing colder around their lonely bodies. He embraces her for a very long time.

"Write to me," he says as they separate, with a soft smile and a piece of paper folded tightly in his palm. She accepts the slip, and nods to keep the tears inside. "I can't promise I'll respond right away, but I'll do my best."

She kisses him sloppily on the cheek and he grins, and returns it tenderly on her forehead. When he walks down the hill, he looks back, and they wave.


	15. Morning, 4 December 1955

By the fourth day, the mornings become something of a chore: even though life has found a bit of rhythm on the boat, the nightmares have not been kind to either of them, and they tear themselves reluctantly from the bed, wishing desperately for extra sleep and knowing that it will not come. But the pressure of her hand on his eases the sounds of gunshots and phantom starvation; his lips on her crown deafen the explosions of bombs in her mind.

They gather a small breakfast of fruit and bread, and suddenly find loneliness in a crowded room of strangers, with no free tables available. Silently and simultaneously, they build up a bit of courage and decide on an older couple they don't recognizing sitting alone by a large bay window, two empty seats beside each of them. Liesel, with a stronger command of the English language, asks if she and Max may join.

"Of course!" The man, a few years older than the woman, is solidly in his middle years; he is rounding and generally severe-looking, although his smile is full of welcome and contentment. A yarmulke rests comfortably on a surprisingly thick head of hair; his cheeks and nose are pink, the rest of his body well turned out in a suit carefully tailored. Max takes the seat on his right.

Liesel carefully sets herself beside his wife, just a touch younger with graying dark brown hair. Her eyes are gentle and just as welcoming. She is thin and also well turned out, in a deep blue jacket and skirt ensemble that makes Liesel feel unsuitably dressed in her short-sleeved top and skirt that only just brushes her knees.

"I was just saying to my husband how fine a journey this has been so far." She speaks kindly and slowly, having taken note of Liesel's heavy accent, for which she is grateful. The Sydney lilt is familiar and comforting, and she finds herself liking these two immensely.

"It has been very smooth," she adds in English spoken as quickly as she dares. The memory of the pilgrimage to Australia comes unwanted to her mind—rocky and overwhelmed with storms. She prefers this phenomenally.

"May I ask where you're from?"

"My husband and I are from Germany, originally. We live in Sydney now."

As there always is, in their eyes Liesel watches the rough calculations of their ages, the struggling-to-be-subtle glances at Max when they realize the age gap. She can see it all in their expression, and knows the moment this couple understands everything of importance about them, without a word between them.

"Will you be stopping at Cape Town, or Haifa?" The man speaks now, with the same accent of his wife, comforting after the past few days of thick, unfamiliar tongues.

"Haifa." It is Max who answers. "We are heading to Jerusalem."

The man, whose expression is painfully serious when resting, turns to him with eager gentility in his eyes. "For Aliyah?"

"Ah, no." He clears his throat, and admits what she never thought he would. "For testimony."

If it's possible, the man's eyes become even softer, and he offers a gracious smile in understanding. "_Yad Vashem_, they've named it, for the book of Isaiah. '_I will give them a place and a name.' _A very fascinating choice." His right hand nears Max's, threatening to give a touch of comfort. "May I ask where?"

"Dachau." She will never get over the way he pronounces it: without any emotion, and yet it is filled with all the hatred and fear in the world. He says it, and in it is damnation for the entire Third Reich.

The man takes his hand, and Max smiles at the comfort—Liesel watches something pass between them, like an apology. Like acceptance, and like love. She looks down on her plate, and fills her mouth. There is silence, and finally he releases Max's hand, only to offer it again for a proper handshake. "Isaac Kaplan."

Introductions are made all around, and they spend the rest of the morning getting to know each other. His wife, Emily, makes polite inquiries, which Liesel responds to and returns, but for the most part she watches her husband struggle through English to connect with this new friend, a rabbi from Sydney. She can barely contain her own grin when Max's expression relaxes at that, grows hopeful at it.

_He has so many questions, and so much pain_. At noon, they're politely asked to leave the dining area, and she takes his arm quietly as they walk along the deck with the Kaplans. _I had hoped giving testimony would help resolve some, and going to Israel would help the rest—but talking with a rabbi? _It warms her very soul.


	16. 29 November 1945

29 November, 1945

Molching

Dear Max,

I wanted to write to you earlier, but I didn't have much to say. Now, though, I don't know if I'll have enough pages to tell you what's happened.

Papa and Mama's daughter Trudy came to visit yesterday.

She came a little after dinner, when I was reading in the library. Frau Hermann came to get me with a funny look on her face, and when she said who was waiting for me I couldn't really believe her. But I followed her to the front door anyway.

It was so hard, Max. I hadn't seen it before, but looking at her in the hallway—I could see Mama in her. She has Mama's hair, and Mama's eyes—they're softer, but still Mama's. When she looked at me I wanted to cry, and I wanted her to call me a _Saumensch._ She stands a little like Papa, a little bent over, huddled together. She has his nose.

She didn't call me a _Saumensch_, but she smiled like Papa, and was surprised at how tall I'd gotten. When she came forward she wanted to hug me, I could see it, but she didn't. I'm glad she didn't. I don't know how I didn't cry looking at her.

We went back into the library and she looked over my homework, over the book I've been reading. It was uncomfortable for a bit, but then she finally asked me what I knew she wanted to.

I told her about the bombs, as much as I could. What the last week was like. She smiled at the things she'd forgotten, and then looked ashamed that she'd forgotten them at all—things like Papa's smile and Mama's voice, things that came back to her as I talked.

She told me she was sorry, and she must have apologized for five minutes, until she started crying. She said she was sorry for not having gotten to know me, for having been so busy with the family she cared after, but I knew she wasn't really talking to me. I held her hand but I don't think it helped her very much.

I've never felt so helpless, never wanted to help someone so badly. I told her that Mama and Papa had understood, that they hadn't been angry at her for leaving home. It didn't seem to do her any good, but she smiled at me for trying. She kissed me, wetly, and when she left she was still crying a bit. I hope she believed me—because it was true. They never talked about her too much at home, but it wasn't because they didn't love her—they were just so busy making ends meet, and then you came to us, and then you and Papa left and it would've hurt Mama to talk of him and her children while he was away. So they never came up. But I know they loved her, like I know they loved you. And me.

Trudy said her brother was killed at Stalingrad. I was too young when he made his last visit—it was the Christmas before you came—but now that I look back on it, I'm not so sorry they didn't talk about him. He was awful, Max. He so thoroughly believed in Hitler, wanted him to win. I feel bad about it, but I hate him, Max. I hate him, and I hate the soldiers, and sometimes I realize I hate every German for what they let happen to you—sometimes I hate myself for it, too.

I wish you were here again. When I'm with you, I'm not so angry. I don't hate everyone as much. Say hello to Walter for me. I hope things are going well. Write back soon.

Yours,

Liesel


	17. Evening, 4 December 1955

They join the rabbi and his wife for an early dinner, and Liesel is almost shocked to find herself easing into a gentle friendship with the man and woman: with something of surprise she realizes how much she has limited her social interaction because of Himmel Street. The last few years of school were too painful, memories of Rudy too strong to encourage any sort of intimacy with other students—the thoughts of a muddy track and bomb-stained cheeks were too close to each other, the agony of love and loss too irrevocably combined in her sixteen-year-old heart to risk the venture once more.

And then, after a few lonely months of foundation-building and acquaintance-making, Max had arrived to add to her stability. Unconsciously—she realized now—she had barely been able to leave his side, to make friends on her own, because his presence was still too new, too insecure in her doubting heart. It had been hard enough to leave him in order to go to work that first year; getting to know new people, to trust and love them, had seemed like such a daunting task when she was already overwhelmed by the solidarity of _him._

But that had been years ago, and the novelty of Max had worn off by their first anniversary. And then they had been too busy making ends meet, too busy getting rid of their apartment to afford passage to Australia, the struggle to establish a life in a foreign land. There simply had been no time for other friends, and no energy to speak of.

But here, their pockets comfortably lined and conversation miraculously easy and warm, she remembers how easy it is to connect with another human being. Emily is a generous conversationalist, curious and eager. Liesel is ashamed of her English but it is only put on by her own insecurities: the kind woman never so much as frowns as she trips over her own tongue. Her first language had been Polish, and she had been a professor of French at a university in Sydney, she explains after Liesel's first apology, so she understands the difficulty of speaking a foreign language. Fluent in Hebrew as well, she gladly offers her teachings should Liesel be interested. She eagerly agrees.

But for all of Emily's kindness, Liesel cannot help but remain a little wary in her company. In her youth she had feared to connect with others, for the belief that all talk would inevitably lead her to the revelation of her family life, the death of the only family she had ever known. But not here: Emily speaks of fashion and cinema, the Royal family and politics of Israel. She even speaks of books, and Liesel knows all the nervous tension has left her body when they speak of Shakespeare in enthusiastic tones. There is comfort here that she hasn't found in the other women travelling to Israel—a unique kind of tenderness, that almost feels like home.


	18. 19 December 1945

19 December, 1945

Flossenburg

Dear Liesel,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond. While I did get your letter before Walter and I left, we've been very busy traveling, and I haven't had much time to write a reply. I'm only just jotting this down before we board another train.

I wish I had been there to meet Fraulein Hubermann. I wonder what she would have thought about me, or if it would have changed how she saw her parents. I assume you didn't tell her—I wouldn't have, in your place.

It must have been overwhelming to see her again, and I'm so sorry no one was there to help you. I can't imagine how strange it was, to see parts of her parents in her. I sometimes think I see Hans when I walk down the street before I realize they're a stranger—I can't imagine what a daughter's resemblance is like.

Sorry this letter is so short—I don't have enough time. Couldn't get much out of Flossenburg, guards unhelpful. Found a survivor; they had never heard of Vandenburg. Some relief there.

Please don't feel guilty. Will write longer in Weimar. If you write again, send it to this town with my name on it, and hopefully it'll reach me at the post office.

Wishing you the best in school,

Max


	19. Early Morning, 2 December 1955

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, everyone! Just want to let you all know that I'm going to put this fic on hiatus until, at the very earliest, January 6th: it's finals week for me now and I have so much work to do, and won't really have time to breathe until then. I hope you all had a Merry Christmas!**

* * *

She's surprised to find him awake before her the next morning: the spot beside her is startlingly cold as she stretches over to his side, and it forces her fully awake, only to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, reading in the light of the early sunrise.

"Max?" Her tongue is heavy, and it comes out as a mumble; still, she watches the shock ripple through his shoulders when her unexpected voice rips him from the book. He turns, smiles softly, and after he places the book on the floor he leans over and kisses her lightly on the mouth.

"Good morning." His voice is just as tired, and she is filled with shame: he's nightmared and she wasn't there for him.

He knows her too well, for either of their sakes—it's only a flicker of emotion in her eyes and across her mouth before his fingers are up to brush back her sleep-tousled hair in a tender caress. "It wasn't so bad, I promise. I woke up before it could be overwhelming."

In a flash she remembers her own—similar to what he describes, nothing to force her to consciousness but enough to fill her with dread now, at the time of waking. She shivers at the memory of Rosa Hubermann's lifeless expression.

"I promise," he half-whispers in the violet light, a small smile on his lips, "the next time I nightmare, I'll be sure to wake you up."

He makes good on his word that very night.


	20. 26 December 1945

26 December, 1945

Molching

Dear Max,

Not much to say this time, but I wanted to send you a letter anyway, let you know how we've all been. Christmas was nice—it's so different from Mama and Papa's Christmases that sometimes it's hard to believe it's the same holiday. There are so many treats, and so much food, and the mayor and his wife are very generous. I got some warmer clothes and new shoes from Frau Hermann, and most likely on her suggestion, the mayor bought me a book. This one is a history, though, so it's unlike anything in her library. I'm not in a hurry to read it. I hope Hanukkah was fun, even with the traveling, even with _why _you're traveling—I wish I'd been there to celebrate it with you.

The break from school is nice but there isn't much to do here. Herr Steiner is receiving some more business as the snow starts, but even visiting the shop doesn't kill the boredom like it used to. On Saturday the mayor tried to keep me entertained by walking with me along the Amper. It should be pretty this time of year, but it's just very cold and wet, and we didn't have much to talk about. I've been here for two years and he's still unsure of how to act around me. Which is fine, because I'm not sure how to act around him, either.

I hope that Weimar is a more productive experience. I'm not sure if I hope you learn something or learn nothing. Sometimes I think I know which one might be easier to hear, but I can't really imagine that. I hope you get the information you need, then.

I hope you get this soon. I wish I had an actual address to send this to.

I miss you.

Yours,

Liesel


End file.
